


Redacted Script

by OmoYasha



Series: Omovember 2020 [10]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Cecil can be a bit of an asshole, Cecil has issues, Crying, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Omorashi, Sort of? - Freeform, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmoYasha/pseuds/OmoYasha
Summary: All he had to do was sit out the evening like a normal person, eat some food and make an hours worth of conversation - prove that he was *just fine*, even with Carlos out of town.  And then he could do what he really wanted, which was to go home and hide under the blankets and wish his husband was home to cuddle.He just had to make it through dinner.  Easy, right?Too bad life has other plans.
Relationships: Abby Palmer & Cecil Palmer, Steve Carlsberg & Cecil Palmer
Series: Omovember 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998742
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Redacted Script

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be part of a much longer story, but I crashed and burned and lost momentum, so now you all are getting a revised, shortened version in it's 7,000 word glory for omovember!  
> It's a little on the... darker/more upsetting side, compared to what I usually write - I tried to tag accordingly, but let me know if there's any important ones that I missed.
> 
> Also, the usual warning: While it DOES have a plot/other elements, this fic has pee as a major focus! Do not be shocked!

It was quickly becoming apparent to everyone present that Cecil Gershwin Palmer was in A Mood.

They were three weeks into the two month ordeal that was Carlos’s trip to the world science and technology expo. It was a professional necessity that the scientist attend to present his research, and Cecil couldn’t go. The entire town was acutely aware (whether they wanted to be or not) that their radio host was crushed by this turn of events. And that no matter how enthusiastically he claimed to be fine, Cecil was… not taking his husband’s absence well.

It had actually escalated to the point that several of Cecil’s acquaintances had called _Abby_ with concerns – about his diet, his self-isolation, and his myriad concerning behaviors – which they had taken note of, but were unsure how to address in the absence of both Carlos and Old Woman Josie.

Abby was not about to risk her brother starving himself in under two months, or falling back into any of the self-destructive habits that she _strongly suspected_ he had never told his husband about. Despite the warnings, it wasn’t until she had strongarmed him into coming home for dinner with her family that it became clear just how sour of a temper Cecil was in.

She should have expected it, really.   
Cecil had grown much more reasonable over the years, even significantly improving his treatment of Steve after their ordeal with the angels. And by some miracle, marrying Carlos _did_ seem to have been healthy for him… lending a logical counterpoint to much of Cecil’s enthusiasm, and an unprecedented stability to his emotional state. But in the end, Cecil would always be… well, _Cecil_.

Abby had realized at an early age that her brother possessed a temper best described as “mercurial” – and it had only grown more so through his adolescence and his long, indeterminate young adulthood.

So, honestly, she couldn’t say it was a _surprise_ to see her adult brother scowling, picking at his plate, and generally acting far less mature and kind spirited than the actual teenager seated across from him. It wasn’t a surprise, exactly, but it was still _frustrating_. 

Frustrating and, if she was honest with herself, disappointing. All the moreso because they’d had such a long period of impressive social maturity from her brother. They had gone years now without much uncalled for attitude, and he’d even managed actual friendliness toward Steve lately, instead of mere tolerance.

It had been a long, long time since any of them had seen Cecil so grouchy, and she found herself irritated at his childishness as he insisted on turning every attempt at conversation into a verbal sparring match, barely touching his food.

Abby sighed as Cecil shot back a harsh, sarcastic retort to Steve’s well-meaning question about his cat. She had no idea _why_ her brother had suddenly chosen to retreat so deeply into his prickly asshole mode, either. It was rather over the top, as far as reactions to Carlos going out of town. But she’d figured out a long time ago that there was no point trying to analyze why Cecil did the things he did… it was better to simply take things at face value, and react accordingly. So instead, she waited to see if he was going to escalate things to the point where she had to do something more than just send him harsh glares to shut it down.

There was no point trying to converse with him like this – the only person he’d said anything remotely pleasant to all evening was Janice (which was good – the minute Cecil started taking… whatever this was, out on his niece was the minute he could walk his snarky ass home and spend the rest of the night alone in the dark).

No, the objective here was simply to make sure that Cecil actually fed himself something other than an occasional slice of Big Rico’s, and maybe – hopefully – to see if he would calm down a little bit, spending time with Janice afterward. Steve, of course, hadn’t yet realized that conversation was pointless. Janice on the other hand, had wisely retreated from the interchange, except to offer a distracting change of subject when the silence became too tense. Abby, as always, was stuck in the unpleasant role of playing interference between the two men.

“Cecil,” she broke in sharply as her brother opened his mouth in response to Steve’s story about a PTA meeting.

“Just eat your potatoes, okay?” She fixed him with her hardest glare, and he sulkily stabbed a piece of food and popped it in his mouth, maintaining an invasive level of eye contact.

“ _Thank you_.” Abby said firmly, as Cecil spent far more time chewing the bite of food than it warranted. He fidgeted under her scrutiny, and she turned back to her husband before he snapped at the attention – willing to take the grudging peace for however long it lasted.

Steve didn’t understand why, out of nowhere, his brother-in-law was backtracking so hard on the relationship they’d finally managed to forge. He didn’t understand and, unlike Abby, it was clear that the lack of understanding rankled at him. She could tell that Cecil’s mean comments tonight were getting to him, hurting his feelings.

Cecil, too, appeared increasingly agitated for some reason, squirming and snapping at them, hardly even attempting his food unless prodded. Given his overall behavior tonight, Abby found she really didn’t care what the reason was. This was ridiculous and unacceptable.

She stared him down, although he didn’t seem to notice – tense and twitchy as he let his fork click rhythmically on the edge of his plate.

She hadn’t been paying attention to the question Steve asked – too focused on the body language of those at the table – but she saw Cecil look up and take a deep breath, and she knew instantly from the expression on his face that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was decidedly Not Good.

“ ** _Steve Carlsberg,_** ” he spat, tone dripping with venom. He took another breath, and Abby had time to think “Oh _hell_ no” before he began his tirade in full swing.  
“Has it ever occurred to you that nobody wants to hear your _STUPID_ ideas abou-“

Abby was on her feet.

“ _CECIL GERSHWIN PALMER!”_

She snapped his name like a command, not offering any further instructions. She didn’t need to: her brother knew exactly why she was angry.

Typically, this would be where Cecil either shrunk into himself, slightly embarrassed, and let her scold him into behaving a bit better for the rest of the night… or where he stubbornly pressed ahead and tried to pin all of the blame on Steve regardless of how obviously he himself was at fault. She was prepared for either reaction; more than ready to either move on with the evening civilly, or put Cecil in the naughty corner and be done with it. She didn’t care that Cecil was a grown man – if he wasn’t willing to act like one, the naughty corner was always waiting (and it was, in fact, primarily used for such moments, since _Janice_ had outgrown the punishment years ago).

Instead, Cecil froze, face blanching a peculiar purpleish gray, and then he stood in a rush, violently throwing his fork on the table with a loud clatter. He stood, fists clenched and shoulders tense, for a split second. His eyes flicked to Abby, his jaw tight, with an unreadable, stormy, expression on his face. For a moment she thought he would argue with her, but instead he made a strange kind of choked huffing noise, and fled the room – shoving his chair back so aggressively that it fell over, hitting the floor with a crash.

A door slammed down the hall.

The rest of the family sat in silence for a few seconds, letting out a collective breath of relief now that Cecil was… hiding in the laundry room, it sounded like? Instead of actively antagonizing every adult in the room.

The others had mostly finished their meal, but Cecil’s plate sat largely untouched.

Abby inhaled deeply, and blew the breath out through her nose, knowing that it was useless trying to deal with Cecil when she was so angry. It never solved anything, she forcibly reminded herself. She had certainly made that mistake enough times in the past… it was as if her brother turned into some kind of monstrous feedback loop, absorbing the intensity of emotion in a moment and magnifying it tenfold. He was always that way, for good or for bad. And when the emotions were unpleasant? Just miserable for everyone involved. No, far better to leave him to stew a bit, and come back to calmly demand an apology and an explanation.

She was drawn out of her thoughts when Janice’s clear, soft voice piped up to break the silence.

“Mom? Is something wrong with Uncle Cecil?” The girl asked, frowning.

Abby sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing diagnosable about an awful attitude, sweetheart.”

Janice was already shaking her head.

“No mom. Not that – I mean, yeah, Uncle Cecil is kinda being a jerk tonight. But I was wondering if he was sick or something, too.” The teenager played with a strand of her hair, glancing between her parents. Steve began gathering up dishes with a slightly forced smile, leaving Abby to explain her dysfunctional family member.

There could be any number of reasons for an observant kid like Janice to ask that kind of question, and Abby wasn’t about to fall into the trap of assuming she knew what her daughter was thinking. So her first response was a neutral, open ended, “What makes you think something is wrong with your uncle today, Janice?”

Janice rolled her eyes with expert annoyance, as only a teenager can.

“I’m sixteen mom, not stupid.” she grumbled. “Uncle Cecil doesn’t normally look like he’s about to start crying when he eats broccoli, and he _definitely_ doesn’t start _peeing himself_ when he gets in trouble. Or freak out and run away.”

“He doesn’t normally… I’m sorry, did you just say he wet his pants? Really?”

“…yeah? You didn’t notice? When he stood up there was kind of a dark spot there –“ Janice gestured to her lap, “-and, um.”

She pointed down the hall. Squinting, Abby got up to take a look. Droplets of liquid marked the floor every few steps, the drips becoming closer and larger further down the hall. She groaned, not particularly caring about the mess, but beginning to dread the complications that the night kept throwing at her.

Steve sat down with them at the table, sighing.

“I just don’t understand him, Abby.” He rubbed his knuckles absently.

“He’s been so much nicer, and I really thought we were getting to know each other better, and then tonight… bam! Mean Cecil again.” He shook his head, frowning in bewilderment.

“None of it makes sense. And if he needed to go, why hide in the laundry room instead of the bathroom? If that’s why he was touchy, why not get up and go earlier? None of us would care.”

He paused, looked at Abby.

“Did your brother just pee on himself out of spite?”

It was an incredibly childish thought, a petty plan more befitting of a preschooler than an adult.

It was also, Abby had to admit, _exactly_ the kind of thing she could imagine Cecil doing.

She shook her head.

“No. If Cecil were trying to upset us more, he’d have stuck around for more effect instead of hiding, or he’d have found some way to pee on something you care about – we all know it’s true. That was just… Cecil. Having an accident. And then panicking.”

The thought that Cecil hadn’t made such a mess intentionally did exactly nothing to make her feel better about the situation. If anything, it added to the dread pooling in her stomach.

“Then…” Steve trailed off, searching her face for the cause of her worry. Janice waited, too.

Abby exhaled.

“Steve,” she stated bluntly, “Cecil can be a bit childish, but I can only think of a few scenarios that would end in my brother _suddenly pissing himself_ in the middle of dinner, and none of them are desirable.”

At their curious, expectant gazes, she continued.

“First possibility – this _is_ the kind of thing that happens if Ceecie has _way_ too much to drink. He gets belligerent, snippy… doesn’t pay attention to what his body needs until it’s impossible to ignore.”

Her tone was grim. If Cecil had been drinking that much, it was definitely not a good thing.

“He’s not drunk.”

She and Steve both jumped slightly at their daughter’s interjection.

“I mean, he didn’t smell boozy when he hugged me, just a little bit gross like he hasn’t showered. And besides, if he was drunk, he’d probably have started crying like five minutes in.”

Reluctantly, Abby ceded the point, uncomfortable though she was at the revelation that her daughter was familiar enough with Cecil’s drinking habits to even think of such things.

“Well, if he hasn’t been drinking, a second possibility is that he could be sick, like you thought he might be, Janice. But…”

She traced a scar in the wooden table.

“I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Or at least, not entirely. The third option…”

Abby knew her brother, and she knew her luck. Even as she spoke, memories of darker, more turbulent times struggled to the forefront of her mind. She swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat.

“I think the third possibility is what we’re probably dealing with. And that is that Cecil is having a… bad day.”

She could feel her daughter and husband’s eyes on her, knowing that they saw the simplistic phrase for the euphemism it was.

“I’m sorry babe,” she said to Steve, already regretting the twisting ties of family obligations.

“I know Cecil’s been awful today, but if he’s… I can’t just send him home alone. It would be irresponsible.”

How she hated the phrase “responsibility” – the things it demanded of her. Of her family. But sweet, loving Steve simply took it in stride.

“Then he’ll be spending the night, I guess. Nothing for it.”

Abby blessed the eternally accepting man who had married her. She owed him an explanation, and they both knew it. But she couldn’t bear to talk about all the grisly details of their childhood. Not in front of Janice.

“Sweetie, could you go make sure the guest room is set up for Uncle Cecil, maybe find him something to wear as PJs?” Steve suggested.

Janice was old enough to know she was being banished.

“Steeeeeve…” she whined. “I’m worried about Uncle Cecil too!”

Abby broke in, silently thanking her husband for thinking of an out.

“Janice, please do what Steve asked.” Knowing her daughter’s brand of stealthy ingenuity, she added, “And please don’t eavesdrop. If it’s important for you to know, then I will tell you someday as well. But right now it would make your uncle uncomfortable if you knew all his private business, alright? Please respect our privacy.”

Janice sighed heavily.

“Fine, mom. I’ll go….” The teenager left the room.

Abby and Steve moved to the couch, sitting side by side in silence. Abby spoke first.

“You know, Cecil and I… when we were growing up. I know I normally don’t talk about it, but I know there’s some things Cecil’s said that… you have questions. And you deserve an answer.”

Abby didn’t like to talk about her childhood, because she didn’t like to think about it. This had always worked out well, because Cecil – her only remaining birth relative – also almost never brought it up. Sometimes she thought that he avoided the topic because he, like she, found it distressing. But often, disturbingly, she found that when he did mention his past, his recollection was incomplete, fragmented. Missing major details, or remembering events entirely incorrectly.

He didn’t like it when she pointed that out.

So she just… didn’t. Didn’t correct him, didn’t discuss it. It bothered her, sometimes. Not knowing how much he remembered on a given day. Never being sure how much history they really shared.

There was a story to their childhood, and most especially, a story to Cecil’s… strangeness. That much, Abby was certain of. Other people in Night Vale thought they knew what the story was, but all of them were wrong – looking at puzzle pieces and thinking they had a whole picture. Even Abby didn’t know everything, though she certainly knew more than most.

She had accepted a long time ago that nobody would ever truly know everything that happened, the entire story, because Cecil was the only one who could have told them. Cecil, her brother whose memory had more holes than a colander. Cecil, the absolute best citizen in Night Vale at ignoring uncomfortable truths – Cecil, who took the usual instructions of “if you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget” _very much_ to heart. Cecil, quite possibly the only person in town history ever to be _happy_ about being reeducated.

Whatever he’d experienced, whatever filled the gaps in their story… Abby didn’t expect that anyone would ever find out. The chances that Cecil was even capable of explaining were next to none. So all she could do was tell her own story – from _her_ perspective. What _she_ knew.

“I think it’s time I told you some things. About Cecil and I. A story about us.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. And then, hesitantly, she started talking.

She talked about a lot of things – about their childhood. About their mother, and the unevenness of her care. About taking care of Cecil, when he was little, in ways that a child still in primary school should not have to look after a toddler. And about how things had changed, when Cecil was five – after however many years that had been – and their mother finally started to take better care of them. How, by the time Abby finished high school, things had become so stable that Abby thought they would be fine without her when she left for college. And how, even now, she thought of that as one of the worst mistakes of her life.

At that point in the story, she stopped, and ran a hand over her face.

“The next part is the part I really hate telling. It’s hard to lay out everything clearly, and there’s so much I still don’t know… and the things I do know hurt me a lot back then.”

Steve nodded, a soft expression of understanding on his face.

“I’ll make us some cocoa, first.” he offered. She nodded, grateful, and tried to arrange her thoughts into some semblance of order.

“Mom?”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the quiet call, and a moment later Janice poked her head around the doorway.

“What is it?”

“I found some spare pajamas, but… does Uncle Cecil need any, you know, supplies? If you’re not going to go get his clothes?”

She waved a hand vaguely at waist level, as though to clarify what kind of “supplies” she was thinking of. She didn’t blush – Janice was far too practical of a girl to be embarrassed by such everyday concerns. And it _was_ practical – Abby felt a bit foolish for not considering it.

She took a breath, tamped down her feelings, and said “Thank you Janice, that’s a very good point. Would you mind lending him some of your things for tonight, sweetie? You’ve grown enough lately that the two of you should be near the same size range.”

She half expected needing to convince a reluctant teen to share her belongings, but Janice nodded eagerly.

“Okay! I’ll let him know. I mean, they aren’t cool and purple like the ones he normally wears, but I bet he won’t mind.” She rolled down the hall before Abby could ask her any questions.

Abby snorted, shaking her head. Knowing Cecil, he actually _would_ be happy to share Janice’s ‘special underwear’, since the teen herself seemed enthusiastic about the idea. He was very reliable that way, always willing to mirror his niece’s mood as much as possible.

She had no idea how Janice knew that Cecil’s normal protection was “cool and purple” – for that matter, he’d either changed brands recently, or he was embarrassed to let Abby see those ones, because the briefs he’d usually brought to sleepovers in past years were nearly as plain as Janice’s own. She wondered if Cecil had reported the information to Janice in conversation, or if Janice had somehow seen the items in person. There was probably an amusing story there somewhere, but she didn’t dwell on it, well aware that it was probably a very innocent interaction, whatever it was.

She could hear her daughter’s cheery voice down the hall.

“Hey Uncle Cecil! Mom said you could sleep over, so I got some clothes and stuff for you on the guest bed. You can use my, um. You know.”

She could just barely hear her brother’s deep, rich voice stuttering a response, though she couldn’t make out the words.

“Nah, it’s cool Uncle Cecil. I’m actually pretty excited! We’ll match. Like having matching pajamas!”

A moment, and another response.

“No. Why would I be mad? …you did say some pretty mean things to Steve though, and you should probably apologize.”

Abby couldn’t hear it this time, but Cecil must have said something, because Janice responded with “Okay Uncle Cecil. But I still think you might want to apologize. It’s not cool to say nasty things about people just because you aren’t feeling good.”

Her daughter paused for a minute in the hallway, hands on her wheel rims.

“Anyway, I gotta go do my homework now. Talk to you later, ok?”

Steve reclaimed his spot on the couch again, setting a cup of cocoa in front of each of them.

“Abby?”

She looked at him, curious. He was frowning, brow scrunched.

“Why does Cecil need one of Janice’s… I mean, I thought he wasn’t…” he made a vague gesture which did absolutely nothing to clarify. For a moment, Abby felt pure confusion before his meaning hit her.

“Thought he wasn’t…? Oh!” She couldn’t help the snort of surprised laughter in her throat.

“Sorry honey, sometimes I forget you didn’t grow up here, and you haven’t heard all the gossip. It’s one of those things that everyone knows, but pretend they don’t because it would be embarrassing. That’s, um. _Not_ a problem Cecil only has when he’s been drinking. He just… normally handles it better when he’s sober.”

“Oh. So Cecil…”

“Yeah. He wets the bed pretty often, especially when he’s stressed. Always has, never outgrew it.”

“Oh.”

“He hates talking about it, which is probably why you never heard. It’s one thing that’s _never_ going to feature on his program.”

That drew a chuckle out of Steve as well - he knew as well as anyone about Cecil’s infamous tendency to ramble about his personal life on air. It was inherently funny to imagine the man who would happily tell the entire town about a game of strip-Uno he participated in feeling shy about anything.

Abby took a sip of her cocoa. In a little while, she figured she should go and check on Cecil if he hadn’t come out. But in the meantime, she had a story – an explanation – to finish.

“So when I was in my third year at college, I got a phone call from Earl Harlan….”

Stilted and tired, Abby did her best to explain the series of situations that were nearly inexplicable. And Steve sat with her, and held her hand, and listened.

* * *

Cecil curled behind the washing machine in a fetal position, whimpering.

He was lonely and sick and he wanted nothing more than to be at home in bed, listening to Carlos talk about science – impossible though that may be. Most of all though, he was mortified.

The journalist was well aware that he had not been a model guest to his sister that night. Abby was just trying to help, but he’d felt off all evening. Dinnertime found him fighting off vulnerability and tears with a prickly sort of defensiveness, ready to snap at the slightest irritation.

Abby claimed she had invited him over days ago. But if she had, Cecil had entirely forgotten by the time she made an abrupt appearance at his doorstep; letting herself in with the spare key when he didn’t answer the door, and telling him he had five minutes to get up and get dressed, because he was having dinner at her place tonight.

He’d been dozing on the couch, without any real sense of passing time, curtains drawn. He tried to argue, but found himself herded to his closet instead, where he absentmindedly grabbed a set of highlighter yellow bell bottoms and a purple crop top. He was still wearing his outfit from the studio, rumpled and slightly sweaty, and his sister knew him well enough to be aware he wouldn’t be caught dead going out in public like that.

So he groggily dressed in the bathroom, shedding his mussed up unitard and blushing to realize how heavily the pull-up sagged from his hips. How long had he been sleeping?

At least Abby’s pushiness had been helpful in one way – the pull-up was a “just in case” measure, for minor accidents in the daytime, or the kind of wetting he occasionally had if he had a nightmare while dozing. He normally wore heavier duty garments when he was actually _planning_ to go to bed. If he’d slept long enough to wet the soggy purple garment with any more urine, he’d have been scrubbing the sofa… which he very much did _not_ feel like doing today.

He made a face, peeled the offending item from his skin, and reached for the wipes (since he didn’t have time for a shower). He went to grab a new pull-up – he wasn’t planning to sleep over, but he didn’t feel quite right. And though he hated to admit it, the security was comforting.

His fingers brushed air, and an empty plastic wrapper.

Right. He’d low, and hadn’t run into John Peter anytime in the last week or two to ask for a new pack with his prescriptions. He wasn’t about to wear a _diaper_ out of the house, not even to his sister’s house, and – he scowled – he was probably nearly out of those as well.

It was fine. He wiped himself clean thoroughly, bagging the soiled items and tossing them in the trash.

“Cecil, two minutes.” Abby called from the living room. “Might want to get your clothes on.”

He hurriedly slipped on a pair of boxers and the outfit he selected, finger-combing his hair and rubbing some of the sleepiness from his eyes. He opened the door, glowering, right as Abby’s watch dinged.

She dragged him to her car. On the short drive across town, Cecil fell into a vague, absent spiral of anxious thoughts. They pulled into the driveway, and his sister hustled him out. His abdomen twinged, and Cecil suddenly wished he’d gone to the restroom at home. He brushed away the thought, knowing it was the kind of mind game his body liked to play when he was stressed, and not in the mood to deal with it.

He had no appetite, and the mundane noises of the dinner table – the scrape of forks, the rustle of snakes in the pipes, Steve’s _obnoxious_ laugh – grated nauseatingly against his awareness.

Dinner was something to endure, then, tonight, not something to savor. He tried to focus on the thought that if he just sat out the evening like a normal person, and ate some food, then Abby would let him go home, and nobody would bother him for a while. He was in an awful mood though, Steve’s friendliness and stupid jokes bothering him even more than usual.

He grumbled responses, trying to concentrate on eating enough that his sister would let him retreat. She and Janice had taken the hint that their relative was not feeling talkative, and mostly stopped trying. Steve, of course, had not.

There was a dull ache in Cecil’s stomach, and his shoulders grew steadily tenser as he bit out responses to his brother-in-law’s comments and questions, managing to stop short of outright provocation.

Something dark and bitter began to rise in him, boiling deep inside him; burning at the back of his throat.

He wanted to leave.

He couldn’t think about anything but this unwanted, ugly new emotion. Several feelings twisted inside him. Fear, vulnerability, something dull and sad… he fidgeted, uncomfortable in his own body. If this was his feelings delivery for the month, he was going to be writing a strongly worded letter.

Steve said something else – bland, inane, and inoffensive – and suddenly, all the emotions Cecil was experiencing were buried beneath a blanket of volcanic rage. There was a pang of discomfort in his body, but he hardly noticed, spitting pure vitriol at Steve; words coming out in a rush, almost without conscious thought. Like a tea kettle that starts whistling as it reaches a boil, because otherwise it would melt.

“ _CECIL GERSHWIN PALMER!_ ”

Cecil froze. The familiar, cutting shout brought him back to his body with a click that felt almost audible.

Abby was staring at him with narrow eyed fury, and his rage disappeared in an instant. It was replaced by sudden, irrational fear.

He scrambled to his feet, and something spasmed inside him; Cecil realized, as he moved, that some of the ache he’d been feeling was not from illness or anxiety, but from desperation to use the toilet, and that sudden movement was _not_ a good idea.

He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say… but it turned into a strange, strangled noise when he had to tense, a spurt of urine rushing out without his permission. His fear morphed into blind panic, and he fled, knocking his chair over in his clumsy rush to leave.

Cecil was spiraling for some kind of breakdown, and he was pissing himself, and he was _not_ about to do either of those things in front of his family.

He darted down the hall, nearly ducking into the bathroom before the fear of glimpsing himself in the mirror hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Normally, on visits like this, if Cecil needed to go into their bathroom, he would reach in, grab a towel by feel, and toss it over the vanity, then hurriedly make any necessary adjustments as he entered. He had perfected the skill to something of an art.

On a bad day, he would quietly ask Abby or Janice to do it for him.

Right now, the thought of catching his reflection in an uncovered corner while adjusting the drape was too horrifying to consider, and he _needed_ to be alone (remembering Abby’s harsh stare made his breath tight, guilty and afraid of her anger).

Hardly pausing, he bolted to the security of the laundry room, slamming the door as a thin stream of piss ran down his left leg to drip rapidly on the floor, his boxers growing warm and wet against his skin.

He felt far too exposed, too vulnerable.

He stood still for a moment, breathing rapidly, rigid as he tried to stop the flow… but it simply wouldn’t stop. It was a gush now, stain spreading rapidly, large and dark across the front of his pants. It was too much.

He hid, wedging himself into the empty corner on the far side of the washing machine, and curled up with his legs folded up to his chest. He hugged his knees as his bladder emptied itself, feeling the liquid spread across his buttocks, almost burning hot – watching it pool around him on the tile floor.

He whimpered, then shoved his hand in his mouth to muffle the noise.

He felt wrong, foreign in his own body. His emotions, his movements… it was as though his body, his feelings, were following a script that his conscious mind had never had the chance to read. It frightened him.

Time passed in which he was not aware of doing anything. Janice spoke to him through the door, and he responded, hearing her without really processing her words. She left, and time passed.

* * *

Abby knocked quietly on the laundry room door.

“Cecil?” she called.

Her brother did not respond. She pressed her ear to the door, and thought she heard quiet, muffled noises… but she wasn’t certain.

Cecil staying so quiet set all her hairs on end.

“I’m coming in now.” she said, and carefully swung the door in, not wanting to hit Cecil too hard if he was leaning against it.

It opened with no resistance. The room was dark.

Abby flicked on the light, and was instantly met with a ragged, muffled sob. She quickly returned the switch to the “off” position, and groped around until she found the smaller lamp on top of the dryer. She turned it on. There was no protest.

She cringed at the state of the room – several bottles had been knocked off the shelves by the slamming door, and the acrid odor in the room left no mistaking exactly what kind of liquid was tracked across the floor.

Abby grabbed a few towels from the dirty linen pile on her way past, tossing them on the floor to soak up the worst of the mess. Then she followed the trail to the spot where she could just barely see the edge of a foot poking out from behind the dryer, clad in a damp polka-dot sock.

“Hey there Cecil, you ok?”

Cecil whimpered, and she moved around the corner, concerned.

Her brother stared up at her, dewy tears clinging to his eyelashes and cheeks; his face splotchy with a purpleish flush. He was curled into a ball, rocking slightly; one hand clutching at his hair what had to be painfully tight. He was an absolute wreck, clothes soaked and clinging oddly to his frame. From the looks of things, he hadn’t moved in quite a while. Her mouth tightened with concern, and she squatted on her heels in front of him.

“Hey Gershie, you’re alright. It was an accident, that stuff happens.”

She reached out and caught his hands in hers, rubbing lazy circles with her thumbs. Cecil flinched, but then, after a second, hiccupped and pressed into the touch.

He was shaking, and Abby was fairly certain he’d begun crying again. She kept holding his hands, tracing patterns like the ones her husband saw in the clouds.

“You’re alright, Cecil. Nobody’s going to hurt you, and I’m right here. You don’t need to be upset.”

He had leaned forward so that his forehead pressed into her collarbone, and she could feel his heat. Wet, hot tears soaked unto her shirt, and her brother sobbed.

Taking care of Cecil on his worst days, no matter how old he was, had always felt to Abby very much like caring for a small child.

He needed endless reassurance, endless contact, endless stimulation (but never too much at once). He couldn’t really be relied upon to care for himself alone, on those days. And, like a young child, he often lashed out, or struggled to communicate his feelings, thoughts, and needs.

In moments like these, it was impossible not to imagine the thin, dirty, child-Cecil of her memories, wailing and hitting until she solved the problem he didn’t have words for, be it hunger, discomfort, or simply fear.

She knew something of the mindset her brother must be in, but she really needed to understand _why_ – what motives and thoughts were prompting his behavior tonight. Deciding to not even touch the topic of Steve until later – given that it was both inherently complicated, and had a much higher chance of _deserving_ a harsher response than he could tolerate right now – she started with what she hoped was a simple, neutral question.

“You’re pretty worked up right now. Are you upset about having an accident?”

She felt, rather than saw, his tiny nod. She pulled him a little closer into a hug. They stayed like that for a moment, as Abby decided how to delicately word the next question.

“You could have gone anytime, you know. We wouldn’t be angry about something like that.”

Cecil was silent, shivering in her arms.

Time to check another thought.

“You knew you needed to go, didn’t you?”

She kept her voice gentle and even, avoiding even the slightest hint of accusation.

A moment passed, and Cecil nodded, mumbling something angrily to her collarbone – probably some expression of indignation at the question.

The hesitation before his answer did not go unnoticed. Abby petted his hair slowly. With a soft sigh, she asked,

“Cecil, why didn’t you take a break and go use the toilet when you realized you needed to go? I’m not mad, but I’m confused and a little worried that you decided to hide in the laundry room and pee all over your clothing instead of just going to the bathroom. That doesn’t sound like a very Cecil thing to do.”

Cecil sniffled. She waited for a response.

“ _Cecil._ ” she pressed, when none was forthcoming.

Cecil scrunched up into a ball again, ducking away from the hand laying on his head. A word slipped off his tongue, jagged and rough.

“…scared.” he managed, tone unnaturally subdued – about as far from his “Radio Voice” as possible.

She waited. No elaboration was offered.

“What were you scared of, Ceec?”

Cecil squirmed, making half-choked, painful sounds.

”It’s okay, you don’t have to say it.” She reassured him. “You can tell me in code if it’s easier.”

After a beat, Cecil’s long fingers began tapping out his answer where they clung to her.

“ _Don’t know.”,_ his right hand tapped firmly on her elbow, but he wasn’t looking at her. At the same time, his left hand – so softly that she nearly missed it – tapped,

_“Mirror.”_

It was hard to tell if Cecil was aware that he was communicating two contradictory statements at once. Knowing Cecil, she suspected he was not.

“Were you worried about the mirror?” she asked. He nodded, slowly.

“And you didn’t want to ask for help.”

Another reluctant nod.

“What had you so upset at dinner though? It was more than just needing the bathroom, Cecil. You’re not exactly subtle.”

He shook his head, hair blocking his eyes from view.

To her surprise, he answered aloud, words slightly slurred as though his tongue was fighting against each syllable.

“Don’t know. I _should_ know, but I – I –“

His hands left her, tugging hard at his hair.

“Like every part of me is acting a script, but nobody let me read it, nobody told me what play it even _is_ , and I… I don’t…”

His breath caught, and he looked at her for the first time in the whole conversation. She saw his eyes wide in alarm, face paling several shades.

“’bby, I- I’m going to-“

She realized what was happening and scooted away slightly at just about the same time as Cecil bent over gagging. He made a valiant attempt to turn away quickly enough, hands pressed to his mouth, but even so… by the time he was done coughing and retching, he wore the sour smelling remains of his meager dinner, and Abby was certain she had some on her as well.

Cecil began crying, breathing too quickly – whether from illness, anxiety, or humiliation, it was hard to say.

“Okay, bro. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?”

The one positive to being vomited on, Abby thought, was that she could now confirm with certainty that Janice was correct, and Cecil had not been drinking – his puke didn’t smell like liquor, only bile.

With a few insistent tugs on his sleeve, Cecil gave in to the prompting, and let himself be levered to his feet.

They got as far as the door, and Abby paused. Cecil stopped, too, as though he did not have willpower or momentum to move forward without the tug of someone’s hand on his wrist.

“Hey.” She tugged at her brother’s arm until he turned his head toward her, reluctantly making eye contact.

“If I leave you to wash up right now, are you going to wash up? Or are you going to sit in the shower staring at nothing until you fall asleep?”

Cecil didn’t make a sound beyond his breathing, but his gaze slowly slid away from hers until he was staring at some spot on the tiles off to the side.

Abby sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Okay, I’ll help ypu then. Come on, bath.”

On second thought, she had Cecil take his pants and socks off before leaving the laundry room. She wasn’t about to make him walk around the house naked, but limiting the dirty garments to his boxers and shirt meant less to clean up. Honestly, the fact that Cecil didn’t protest said a lot about how out of it he was feeling.

When they left the room, Steve looked at Cecil – shaky, tearstained, and silent, in his wet boxers and shirt he’d been sick on. He gave Abby a questioning, concerned glance from his place in the living room doorway.

She shook her head warningly. She’d have to fill him in later.

She shepherded Cecil into the restroom, and he followed without so much as looking in her husband’s direction – either not noticing or not caring about Steve’s presence.

Cecil followed along as Abby filled the bath, helped him in, and gave him a soapy washcloth, providing step by step instructions on what he should do as she washed his hair. He stayed biddable, unnaturally quiet, all the way until he was wrapped in a large, fluffy towel and seated on the toilet lid.

“I don’t feel right.”

The admission was quiet, eyes still downcast, posture rigid. But shaky as it was, the tone was unmistakably _Cecil’s_ , albeit without the strength and liveliness it usually carried.

“Yeah,” she replied carefully. “I… kind of had that impression.”

He didn’t say anything else as she helped him dress, or as he followed her to the guest room, and curled up in bed facing the wall, looking far smaller than a grown adult had any right too.

Abby watched him for a moment – just watched his chest rise and fall, with a strange sense of sadness.

It had been a long time since she’d seen him this way – so equally broken down in both his body and emotions. She could tell he felt awful, and it was… more familiar to her than it was to him, in all likelihood. She worried for him, and at the same time, felt all the more lonely for it.

But if there was one absolute benefit to Cecil’s… strangeness? His instability? Whatever you wanted to call it. It was that moods and moments like this seldom lasted long. In all likelihood, he’d wake up feeling perfectly fine.

Even knowing he wasn’t watching, she gave him a slightly sad smile.

She wondered if he’d even remember this come tomorrow, or if it would be just another lost memory, left behind for her to carry on her own.

“Goodnight, Cecil.”

She turned out the lights.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for Omovember Day 13: Scared to ask.  
> While this is as far as I ever plan to go with this fic per se, I may at some point write up part of the story Abby told Steve about herself and Cecil as a separate story. It was originally intended to be part of this one, but it was getting way, way too long and detailed to the point where it took away from the rest of the story, so it needed to be separated.
> 
> Comments and reviews are always appreciated!  
> Feel free to find me on omoyasha.tumblr.com


End file.
